


Stoppage Time

by liselle



Category: Football RPF, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Arsenal!AU, Centre Back!Erik, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Football!AU, M/M, Manager!Charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:24:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2191752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liselle/pseuds/liselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their new manager was impossibly young - all unlined skin, bright hopeful eyes and naïve confidence - the herald of a new era for Arsenal, after the golden age of Arsène Wenger. At thirty-two, he would have been younger than most of the players, if Arsenal did not have its policy of offering only one-year contracts to players over thirty, or lost so many to rival clubs in recent years.</p><p>Charles Xavier was an enigma. </p><p>(This is the AU where Charles takes over the reins when Arsène Wenger retires - Andre Villas Boas style. Hopefully without the Villas Boas melt-downs, and a lot more success. Hopefully. A trophy or two would be nice.</p><p>Erik is the bad-tempered centre back who is fighting to retain his position as first-choice.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stoppage Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been posting on tumblr, but decided could be something more - this team could actually win something (beyond an FA Cup). No promises.

Their new manager was impossibly young - all unlined skin, bright hopeful eyes and naïve confidence - the herald of a new era for Arsenal, after the golden age of Arsène Wenger. At thirty-two, he would have been younger than most of the players, if Arsenal did not have its policy of offering only one-year contracts to players over thirty, or lost so many to rival clubs in recent years.

It was a wonder that he had not been torn apart by the English media yet, after the whole farce with Chelsea and  _André Villas_ - _Boas_ , or perhaps it was not so much a surprise - other than being sixteen years younger than Wenger when he took over the helm, he was almost Wenger’s doppelganger in background. An LLM from LSE, some degree of success in Ligue 1 - he had single-handedly steered Lorient from the relegation zone to being Europa League finalists. Lorient had lost the final to Porto on penalties.

English, to boot - not necessarily a good thing, given the opinion of the English public on the national team and choice of managers. Roy Hodgson. Hah. A few years of experience and some mediocre success in an inferior league did not make Charles Xavier a better candidate.

Of course, he had been handpicked by _le Professor_ himself; so had David Moyes. The Chosen One. The English media was already circling like sharks in bloodied waters - half a season, perhaps, before Arsenal’s shareholders chose to end this experiment.

“Arsène has left me a great legacy of talent -” Self-effacing, that was good, “I do not have to face the tribulations my counterparts in other clubs have faced,” A beautifully veiled jibe at Manchester United and Alex Ferguson, even better. “I am immeasurably honoured at the chance to manage this great club, and I thank the players and the fans for all the support they have shown me since I got here.”

They had lost their first pre-season friendly - against Bolton, of all clubs. They then went on to win 4-0 against Napoli, 7-1 against Wolves, 5-2 against Paris St. Germain.

The fans already loved him.

They had not even had their first game of the season.

The dressing room had mixed reactions at the start.

“He’s younger than Arteta,” Wilshere said as he tossed his boots into his locker. “He’s barely older than _you_.” Erik refrained from commenting on Wilshere’s age.

“He seems capable.” Ramsey tended to be less judgemental, after facing two whole seasons of vitriol from fans and media alike after his return from his leg-break. It did not make him any more patient of incompetency on or off the field, though. Erik remembered too well Ramsey’s frustrations over Walcott’s lack of foresight and inability to make the required runs.

Ramsey also idolised the Professor - if he had not, he could very well have been in Barcelona or Real Madrid. Bayern. Loyalty was hard to come by these days - the media of course said that Wilshere was future captain of England and Arsenal, but Ramsey seemed the more likely candidate for the latter. Wenger had certainly thought so, having given Ramsey the armband on more than one occasion.

Xavier, of course, may have different opinions. No one could even begin to guess, not before their first training session with him.

The answer came quickly enough the first day - he wasn’t Wenger. He was simply _different_ , the easiness in his smiles and encouragements, the unyielding tone he used when the Ox failed to carry out his instructions - intentionally - and Xavier somehow knew it and did not give a single inch to the attempted disobedience.

The message had been clear since the first day - Xavier would not hesitate at benching anyone, _anyone_ , if they tried to disobey him.

Otherwise, he was incredibly generous - always liberal with his praises, gentle with his criticisms. Not so much a father - that was the Professor, but a close friend. A _brother_.

Even Wilshere was not immune to his charms. There were no more incidents of smoking in pubs splashed across the front pages of the tabloids - the weight of Xavier’s, _Charles’_ \- as he frequently insisted they call him in private - disappointment was a frightening thing.

“You dive into a challenge too quickly,” Xavier told him, after their first match against Swansea. 2-1. A close call, but a win nevertheless. The touch of Xavier’s hand was almost scorching against his arm, still damp and sticky with sweat from the game.”

Erik subtly twisted his arm away - far better to bear the weight of Xavier’s disappointment than the weight of his own desire.

***

“Erik,” Xavier was patient, painfully so. Erik gritted his teeth and slammed a kick into the ball. Blades of grass sprayed over his left boot. The ball hit the crossbar with a resounding ‘twang’. Perfect shot.

“Erik,” He should tell Xavier to stop calling him that. “You need to stop.” _Stop_. Stop being a disappointment, stop letting the team down.

If he had not made that stupid, stupid mistake – let himself get turned by Robin van Persie, the arrogant  _twat_ , celebrating the way he did, they would not have been left chasing for an equaliser, would not have conceded yet another.

They could have  _won_.

“It happens -” Xavier might as well be telepathic, the way he went on, “We let go, and we move on to the next match.” He heard Xavier sighing behind him. “You need to calm down, Erik.” Yes, calm down, don’t dive into foolish challenges, observe, feel the flow of the game.

He has heard it all before - Wenger may not have a posh fancy accent - but he had been just as eloquent.

He did not miss the creases around the edges of Xavier’s eyes - damn, fucking blue eyes - or the way Xavier turned up at obscenely early hours in the morning to pour over strategies and formations. Fucking formations. It was nearing Christmas, the most crowded period of the season - with them still competing on all four fronts, and the injuries were piling up. Great time for Erik to have a brain fart and fuck things up further.

Losing to United bumped them right down to third - it was so, so close, a single-point margin between City and Chelsea, with Arsenal clinging on to third place by the skin of their teeth, and most likely to slip even further. The media already had them slated for their annual mid-season collapse, with Champions League knock-out matches against Real Madrid coming up in January.

“If you cannot listen,” Xavier said, “I cannot play you.” Erik spun around - he felt his face burning with indignation; who did Xavier think he was going to play then? Chambers was injured - Flamini as a centre back, with Wilshere taking his place at defensive midfield against City? God save them.

“Erik, I cannot trust you on the field if you are like this.”

Erik pushed past him, ignoring the answering flare of anger in Xavier’s eyes. He had one, beneath the polished accent, LSE degree, and well-pressed suits. Of course he did - he wouldn’t have survived as well as he did for his first half-season in the Premier League if he didn’t have the drive.

With Arsenal exhibiting signs of going into decline - they barely scraped out of their Champions League group - there were already betting pools set up on whether he would outlive Moyes’ stint at United.

Erik found himself on the bench, seething, in their next match against City. The media was beside themselves - rested, Xavier had said, Erik simply needed the time off. But everyone would see it for what it looked like, despite what Xavier claimed - he was being punished for the mistake against United.

They lost. 4-1. Could have been more, with Wilshere leaving the defence exposed as much as he did, always up at the front and all geared up for a chance at goal. Xavier had pulled him off at half time, but it had already been three by then.

Price to pay for benching Lensherr - the media said - not that they had won against United with Erik on the field. Xavier had been foolish to risk it in such an important game, he was obviously too young, too inexperienced, too impulsive. What was half a season of semi-decent performances? The real test comes in the second half of the season, everyone knew that.

Lensherr may be rash at times, the papers wrote - but he was still Arsenal’s best left centre back option, and Löw had even once commented that he was challenging Höwedes for first left centre back position for Germany. On that note, Arsenal had been conceding a lot more since Xavier took over the reins - another glaring weakness of Xavier’s there, perhaps? Erik tossed the paper aside. Anybody with half a brain could tell that it was because he failed to live up to Mertesacker’s high standards. What the fuck did it have to do with Xavier.

Koscielny gave him a thump on the shoulder when he turned up for training. “Hey, we missed you yesterday.”

Erik looked across to the other side of the training ground, where Xavier was deep in discussion with Ramsey and Cazorla.

Their eyes met when Xavier looked up for a brief moment, before turning his attention back to Ramsey.

Erik had never seen those blue eyes so weary.


End file.
